Perspective
by TeresaC
Summary: Missing scene from "The Messenger." Joe and MacLeod want the truth; Methos thinks a lie would be more comfortable. [complete]


Disclaimers: Everything about Highlander: The Series belongs to Davis/Panzer Productions, not to me.

This is a "missing scene" following the episode The Messenger.

**Perspective**

By TeresaC

PG

"Richie left? Where was he going?" Joe asked. He brought a bottle of Glenmorangie over to the table where the world's oldest immortal slouched. MacLeod stood nearby, at the bar. It was the middle of the day. _Joe's_ wouldn't be open to anyone but Joe's friends for hours.

"He didn't say. Said he might go looking for some answers." MacLeod smiled, thinking of his protege. He was proud and enormously relieved that Richie had defeated Culbraith.

Joe looked unhappy with his answer, and MacLeod wondered for a moment if Joe's curiosity was personal or professional.

He shifted his attention from Joe to the irritating enigma sitting next to Joe. Methos had seemed somewhat subdued since the exchange with Richie an hour earlier. MacLeod decided not to resist the temptation to needle him. "The real Methos wouldn't give him any words of wisdom. Guess he went looking for some real enlightenment."

Methos snorted.

"What exactly is it you have against Richie?" MacLeod asked.

Methos looked up, started to say something, then looked away. He returned his gaze to his glass. "Now, there's another one" he proclaimed.

"What?"

"Another one of those questions I can't answer. At least not truthfully."

"And what is so hard about it?" MacLeod asked. Methos fidgeted with a coaster. MacLeod didn't miss his attitude of preoccupation. Something was bothering his friend. Something Richie had said?

"You know what I get from being 5000 years old, MacLeod?" the man said. "It's not wisdom. It's isolation."

"Oh, boo hoo" MacLeod said. "All immortals are isolated."

"That's true," Methos replied, his tone turning speculative. "And so is most everyone else, I expect. So it's a matter of degree."

"What's this got to do with Richie?"

"Just that I can't answer your question without making you despise me." Methos flicked the coaster across the table, where it came to rest just on the edge, half on, half off.

"What are you talking about? If you don't like Richie, just say so."

"Yeah, that would be the easiest thing." Methos didn't look up.

MacLeod stalked from the bar to the round table where Methos and Joe sat, turned a chair around backwards, and straddled it. He fixed a glare on Methos, who looked up and flinched at the expression.

Methos sighed and sat forward, hunching over his drink. "Look, you ask me 'What do I have against Richie', and three answers occur to me. Two are lies, but they are the easiest to understand."

"Oh, I wouldn't understand the truth?"

Methos looked uncomfortable.

MacLeod went on. "And why is that?"

"Because you're not old enough to share my perspective."

"Oh, spare me!"

"See? I can't even begin to explain without sounding condescending."

"You've got _that_ right."

"Look, I could lie and tell you I don't like Richie because he's a punk kid with an attitude who gets on my nerves."

"And _that_'s the lie that is supposed to keep me from despising you?"

"Yeah. It's a good lie. Consistent with my behavior. It would hold up."

"But it's not the truth?" Joe put in.

"No," Methos said.

"You set this up, buddy. Now you have to follow through. What is the truth?" Joe asked.

Methos nodded and finished his drink. Pouring another one, he said, "The truth is I've seen lots of Richies. They usually get killed before they become worth knowing, so I don't want to get attached."

"Oh, is that all?" MacLeod cried. He stood and shoved his chair at the table, causing the balancing coaster to topple to the floor. He walked back to the bar, struggling with the fury that boiled up in him.

Behind him he heard Joe breathe, "Jesus, Adam."

Then there was silence. MacLeod got himself under control and turned back to the other two men. Joe was giving Methos a disgusted look, and Methos regarded MacLeod with an expression MacLeod couldn't quite identify. It was neither cynical nor hostile. It might have been ... apologetic.

"It's the truth," Methos said quietly, "and that's why I don't like answering questions like that."

MacLeod wasn't going to take that. He hadn't let go of the previous affront. "So you just write Richie off! That's pretty damn patronizing."

"You think I don't know that?" Methos retorted. "Wouldn't you rather have the lie?"

"No! I want you to explain how you think you can know that Richie won't live long."

Methos ran his hand through his short-cropped hair. "Because he's so typical. Sure, some young immortals will live a while, but I know the type who don't and Ryan is that type. It's nothing personal, MacLeod, it's just ... my perspective."

"Your perspective! It's just your excuse for being a son-of-a-bitch." MacLeod paced around the table, glaring. Methos stared at his empty glass. "If you're afraid to get close to people, just say so. Don't try to hide it behind some kind of 'ancient wisdom'. You can't know what's going to happen. How dare you dismiss him because you're afraid of getting hurt?"

"That's who I am, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod" Methos said. "All I'm saying is, when I tell the complete, honest truth, I get spit on. That's isolation."

MacLeod drew back from the bitterness in Methos's words. He tried to unravel the conversation. He was not at his best when he was angry. A glance at Joe reminded him of the flaw in Methos's argument, and he went back on the attack.

"What about Alexa?" he asked.

"Alexa?" Methos snapped his head up to look at MacLeod in shock.

"Yeah, Alexa! What about..." he paused when he saw the pain on Methos's face. Damn, he hadn't expected to wound the old smart ass in this. Like drawing blood when you were only sparring. He relented slightly. Dead lovers really should be off-limits in an argument.

He spoke more gently. "You can't pretend you won't get attached to ..." _people you know are going to die_. He couldn't finish the sentence. Not in front of Joe. Not every battle, he reflected, is worth winning. He hadn't meant to go here.

Methos stood and walked to MacLeod's old place at the bar. MacLeod stood still, behind his chair at the table. He tried, but failed, to catch Joe's eye. Joe seemed very interested in Methos's response.

"That's different," Methos said.

_Of course it is_. MacLeod intended to drop the conversation, but ...

"How so?" Joe asked. MacLeod sighed, recognizing Joe's right to spar on this particular ground.

"Truth or a good lie?" Methos asked, studying his hands.

"You know I'm gonna say truth."

Methos looked up at Joe and smiled. It was a warm smile - oddly disarming.

"I'll try, but take it easy on me, okay?"

Joe didn't smile back. Methos sighed and sauntered back to the table. If Methos felt the disapproval MacLeod was not able to completely quell, he gave no sign. Or, maybe he did. Methos deliberately chose a chair well within MacLeod's personal space, tipped it back, and looked at MacLeod.

MacLeod moved away, closer to Joe's chair, and sat. .

Methos reached across for his glass. "Young immortals" he said, "are not complete human beings like everyone else is."

His audience said nothing.

"When someone learns they are immortal, they lose ... a finiteness about their life. They become unbounded, un ... grounded. And with it goes about half of their humanity." He took a drink. "They get it back. If they live a while. A century or so. Then they get their sea legs again. Like your friend the musician, what was her name?"

"Claudia," MacLeod supplied, through a tight jaw.

"She couldn't put her heart and soul into her music, because she had lost part of her heart and soul. If I knew her, which I won't, and was interested in giving advice, which I'm not, I would tell her not to worry about her music for a while - worry about her swordwork. In maybe a century or so, her music would come back, but she has to live that long."

_Which is exactly what I told her_, MacLeod thought.

"Sounds like teenagers to me," said Joe.

Methos grinned at him. "Which is why I don't like teenagers, either. But after a few years, teenagers are human again. I can put up with a few years." He slid his glance to MacLeod, looking apologetic again. "A few centuries is a pretty big investment in someone who's likely to die before they become a human being again."

With a superhuman effort, MacLeod held his tongue.

Methos stood and gathered his coat. "Now there is 5000 year old wisdom for you. You don't like hearing it, I don't like saying it, so let's not do this again. Thanks for the drink, Joe. I'm going to go see a movie. There's a 2:30 showing of Titanic. I'm going to go watch a bunch of people die in the North Atlantic. That ought to be cheery." With that, he left.

MacLeod gave the door an exasperated gesture. "There goes living proof that it takes more than age to make wisdom."

Joe didn't answer at first. Then he said, "Well, Mac, if we could tell what 5000 year old wisdom would look like, we wouldn't have to live 5000 years to get it, you know?"

MacLeod snorted. "It doesn't look like that. He's just being an asshole."

"Yeah, I know," Joe said, almost sadly.

They both looked at the door for a long time.


End file.
